


Day 8, 10, 11, 12: Stabbing. Unconscious. Stitches. Don't Move!

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Series: Whumptober 2019 [7]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Baz and Penny interaction, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Penny POV, Penny is being resourceful, Stabbing, Whumptober 2019, healing spells, injuries, mission for the Mage, simon gets injured, unconscious Simon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 18:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21432445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: I couldn't stay on track every day so here's another combo fic incorporating four prompts: Stabbed, Unconscious, Stitches, Don't Move.Simon and Penny are on one of their magical mission for the Mage but things don't go quite as planned. An unexpected injury, an unexpected ally and feelings that can't stay  hidden all the time. Penny chooses to trust Baz, just this once.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Whumptober 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541554
Comments: 5
Kudos: 153





	Day 8, 10, 11, 12: Stabbing. Unconscious. Stitches. Don't Move!

# whumptober day 8, 10, 11, 12

Day 8: Stabbed

Day 10: Unconscious

Day 11: Stitches

Day 12: Don’t Move!

**Penelope**

It started off easily enough. Cross the water to Long Island, a uninhabited islet near Hampshire. It didn’t take us all that long to get there. Langstone Harbour is a little over an hour from Watford.

Took longer than that with the bus but there’s no helping it.

I must say the Mage is simply terrible with logistics. He saddles Simon with missions but never tells him how to get there or how to get back. He doesn’t even spring for tickets or reimburse Simon for expenses. I’ve half a mind to send a letter to the Faculty Board or the Coven but I don’t want my mother getting wind that I’m helping Simon. I’d probably be able to hear her yell from here. And Morgana knows what spell she’d magic up to stop me from helping again.

I’m not going to risk that. I’d rather deal with the Mage’s stingy ways than have my mother find out what we’re doing.

It turned out that this place isn’t much of an island at all, name notwithstanding, although my preparatory research did reveal that it was inhabited in the Bronze Age and even up into Roman times. That’s why the Mage wanted us to go there.

There’s some sort of talisman he’s discovered through scrying. I didn’t think the Mage believed in crystal balls or images in pools of enchanted spring water. Simon says he uses all available means of magical discovery and that scrying is a fairly common practice in Wales. That’s where the Mage is from. Simon says he rarely speaks of it.

We made our way to the island right before dusk and I magicked up a causeway. Simon wanted to steal a boat. Why steal when we can use magic? A stolen boat leaves a trail, a memory for the Normals, something out of the ordinary. A magickal causeway and a judicious “**_through a glass darkly” _**is all that’s necessary for something like this. No one will even know we were here.

Or so I thought. The Mage neglected to mention that this island is protected by the Mer people. And that this talisman has some magical significance to them. Typical.

We made it over without incident and I cast a few finding spells, using a sketch of the talisman the Mage had provided. It took about an hour but we found it, plucked it out from the center of a stone mound and stashed it in Simon’s pocket, wrapped in a scrap of cloth.

One of Baz’s linen handkerchiefs to be accurate. Simon can be so petty sometimes.

It took a fair bit of magic to keep the causeway up that long—the island was a fair distance from the coast, and the span wasn’t as simple as a footbridge across a river or ravine, like I’ve done before. I could feel my magic waning as we made our way back across.

Which is, of course, when the Mer people showed up. They rose up out of the water, on either side of the causeway. Dark-haired men, heavily muscled, wielding tridents at us.  
  
Mer people have their own kind of magic and they don’t particularly like anything crossing over their watery domains. Particularly not mages. There is all kinds of history there, none of it good.

I could see my causeway start to shimmer ahead of us. We only had a short distance to go, the shore wasn’t that far ahead, but then the causeway had flickered completely away in front of us, leaving me and Simon balanced on the edge. I darted a look behind me.

Merlin’s teeth. They’d erased it behind us too. We were stuck on the little remnant, surrounded by them.

Reasoning didn’t work. Simon called the Sword of Mages and made quick work of a few of them, slashing through their tridents and slicing some arms off as he did. It got a bit ugly then. Simon got blurry at the edges, like he gets when his magic rises up. He was moving so fast I could barely keep his sword in sight. He had me tucked behind him with a **_“can’t touch this.”_**

I don’t know why he didn’t do it over himself too but Simon never casts protective spells on himself.

He won’t weatherize himself either, even if it’s pouring rain. I don’t know if he forgets or he’s just incapable of doing it. I think he just forgets. He doesn’t think of himself that way, as needing a shield or a defense. Just everyone else.

We were outnumbered and Mer people are fierce when they’re feeling slighted. Or anytime they’ve got strangers near them, to be honest. I was trying to cast nets and churn up the water but it was difficult to cast when I was stuck behind Simon and hard to avoid getting him tangled up or knocking him off this remnant of my causeway.

A trident had whipped in front of my legs but the spell held it off.

Simon hadn’t been so lucky. He got speared in the side by another raging Mer-man. It was enough of a shock to make him go off. We ended up on the shore, under a tree.

It takes me a moment to clear my head and brush the sand off me. That’s when I get a look at Simon.

He’s bleeding and there’s a huge gash along his side. It looks like he got stabbed and then the trident tore along the surface of his flesh. It’s nasty looking.

Wide. Gaping. Blood pouring out of it.

“Don’t look at me like that, Penny. I’ll be fine. Just give me a **_“get well soon” _**and I’ll be alright.”

His breathing is too fast.

I point my ring at him and it gives me a half-hearted glow. Fuck a goblin. I need more power than this. I point it at him and cast a “**_get well soon_**” and a “**_right as rain_**.” The bleeding slows up and his breathing slows too, but the wound is still there.

I can’t think of any other spells right now. **_“Early to bed” _**comes to me and I cast it. Simon grabs my hand. “It’s all right, Penny. It’s better. I can manage.”

He can’t, the great thumping git. He’s got a bleeding hole in him, literally a bleeding hole, and a good eight-inch gash along his flank.

I need help. I don’t know how I’m going to get him back to Watford. The bus will take too long and we’ll draw too much attention if he’s bleeding on the bus. I doubt a **_“nothing to see here” _**will last long enough, the way I’m casting right now.

I find a blanket in a rowboat nearby and I cast **_“sanitized for your protection” _**on it before I tear it into strips to bind Simon’s wound with it. I make it snug enough that he gasps when I tighten the last bit.

“Bloody hell, Penny.”  
  
“I can’t have you bleeding out, Simon.” My voice is curt but I pull his arm over my shoulder and we limp our way to the station. He rallies a bit for the trip home.

It feels like we’re traveling forever.

We finally make our way to Watford by cab and blast it, the bloody drawbridge is up already. Fuck a nine-toed troll. I am going to skin the Mage the next time I see him, I swear to Merlin.

What am I going to do with Simon? I need to get him inside, I need to get him to the infirmary. We’re standing here, staring at the drawbridge, at the moat, at the gap between us and the wall, trying to figure out what to do.

Simon chooses this exact moment to pass out. He slumps right down, sliding away from me and falling into a heap at the moat’s edge. I drag him back. The mer-wolves have a keen sense of smell and I wouldn’t put it past one of them to crawl up out of the water to investigate the scent. They have a unnerving nose for blood.

I’ve had enough of bloody mer-creatures for one night, thank you very much.

I’m wracking my brain trying to think of a way to contact Agatha. If I could reach her she could get the nurse or the Mage or even Miss Possibelf, if the Mage is gone. He’s gone half the time as it is. He sends us off on these blasted missions and isn’t here to claim the artefact he sent us to find in the first place, the barmy bastard.

I’m on my knees casting **_“get well soon” _**on Simon again when I hear a voice calling my name.

“Bunce?”

I look up to the ramparts and see Baz’s pale face shining in the moonlight.

“What the devil are you doing out there, Bunce? And what have you done to Snow?”

Beggars can’t be choosers. Baz Pitch is a blessed sight at the moment.

“Stop chattering, Basilton Pitch, and help me. Simon’s hurt and I can’t get across the moat.”

He frowns down at me and for a moment I think he’s going to turn away.  
  
Next thing I know he’s over the ramparts and floating down across the moat, calm and collected, as if he casts **_“float like a butterfly” _**every day.

“What’s the situation?” he asks, as he lands, sinking to his knees next to Simon. I can see why Simon gets irritated with him. He even makes kneeling in the mud look elegant.

I give him as vague a story as I can. He shakes his head at me. “Can’t the Mage do his own dirty work?”

It’s startlingly close to my own opinion on the matter. It was fun and exciting the first years. But we’re sixth years now and it’s getting a bit irritating to always be at the Mage’s beck and call. It would be nice if he did some of this on his own. I don’t know why it always has to be Simon.

Baz’s grey eyes meet mine. “I don’t know if I can carry him over the wall with the spell,” he says.

I know that.

“And I can’t magic the drawbridge down.”

I know that, too.

“Can you get the nurse, Basil? Or Miss Possibelf?”

He looks down at Simon then and in an uncharacteristic motion takes Simon’s hand in his, pressing his fingertips to Simon’s wrist. “His heart’s racing. How bad is he hurt?”

“Bad enough. I got the bleeding to slow down but the gash wouldn’t heal.”

Baz’s nostrils flare at my words.

Oh fuck.

I point my ring at him, leaning over Simon menacingly. I hope I look menacing. I’m not sure. I probably just look tired. “Don’t move, Baz. Stay back.”

He knocks my hand away. “Calm down, Bunce. I’m not going to hurt him. I may loathe Snow but this is perhaps the least sporting way to inflict damage on him.” His expression softens. “Let me help.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t trust you either. Now will you shut up and let me help or not? You’ve dragged me into this, I may as well make myself useful.”

His wand is in his hand and he’s pointing it at Simon. I want to push him away. I want to shout at him to stop.

I want him to help me.

He casts a **_“get well soon” _**and I can feel the power of it. I press my fingertips to the blanket bandages and they come away wet.

“I think we’ve got to close the wound. I think that’s the only way we’ll get the spells to actually take.”

“Unwrap it then.”

“Can you handle it, Basil?” I’ve never addressed this with him. I’m not even sure I believe Simon. About Baz being a vampire.

But I can’t risk it. I can’t risk Simon.

Baz raises one eyebrow and quirks his lip. “I can handle a little blood, Bunce.”

**Baz**

Aleister Crowley, I hope I’m right. Thank magic I fed just a bit ago. I’ve got a full belly, blood sloshing through me still. The rats were plentiful tonight and I was thirsty.

It should be fine. Everything should be fine.

The scent of Snow’s blood hit me when I was still up on the ramparts. It’s what made me look down. I know that scent.

I’d recognize it anywhere.

I’ve smelled it all too often; from when I’ve hit him myself, from all the nights he’s crawled into bed after one of the Mage’s missions.

He smells like bacon and warm cinnamon buns. Like hazelnut coffee and campfire smoke.

He smells good enough to eat.

I can’t let myself think like this.

I have to do this. I have to help Simon.

“It’s fine, Bunce. Unwrap the layers yourself, if you don’t trust me.” That keeps me from getting blood on my hands. I don’t know if I could handle that right now.

Bunce meets my eyes and we stare at each other for a long moment. Then she nods and unwraps what looks like a plaid fleece blanket from around Snow’s waist.

The gash is ugly. It’s ragged and a good six inches in length, gaping near the stab wound but tapering off at the end. There isn’t much active bleeding. It seems the spells have at least managed that.

I don’t know how to heal a wound. I’ve not had to do this before. Experimentation seems a bit risky. I try to think of something that might bring the edges together but my mind is a bit of a blank, between the glimpse of Snow’s freckled skin and the rising scent of his blood surrounding me. I may be a tad woozy from it all.

Bunce shoves me. “Do something.”

“I’m trying to think what to do.”

She huffs. “If you can’t think of a way to seal the wounds then we’ll just have to stitch him up.”

“You must be joking.”

“I’m waiting for a better idea from you.”

She’ll be waiting a long time then. I’m blank other than healing spells so I hit Snow with a few more of those to stall for time. The wound narrows a bit and the bleeding stops completely, thank magic.

He’s still out cold. Blood loss and shock, I’m assuming.

**_“A stitch in time” _**I cast and a threaded needle shimmers in front of me. I’m not sure if I should use my wand or my hand to direct it. Bunce makes the decision for me. She grabs the needle and starts to make the first stitch. She manages to make three uneven stitches before she groans and covers her face with her hands.

“Ugh. I don’t know if I can do this.”  
  
“What do you mean you don’t know if you can do this? You asked me to help. I’m helping. Come along now, Bunce, stitch away.”

“I can’t. It’s awful. The way the needle feels going through his skin and the way his flesh quivers when I do it.” She shakes her head. “You do it.”

I stare at her. “You can’t be serious.”

The glare she shoots me over her glasses is menacing. Bunce can be quite terrifying when she chooses.

I bite my lips. I do not want to touch Snow’s skin. That would be an absolutely terrible idea. I may want to trace the constellations of moles that dot his chest and abdomen but now is most certainly not the time for that.

What am I thinking? There’s never going to be a time for that.

I shake my head to clear it.

I really can’t afford to get any of his blood on my hands.

I lean over him, wand pointed at the needle Bunce has abandoned on Snow’s skin. **_“I’ve got this all sewn up.” _**I make the sewing motions with my wand and the needle parallels my movements, slowly stitching up the wide wound, inch by inch. I make her tie the knot when I’m done.

She casts a _**“sanitized for your protection” **_on the blanket remnants, which is truly an inspired spell. I’ll have to remember that one.

Once she’s got Snow all bandaged again, she moves to place his head on her lap, gently stroking the hair off his face.

I imagine it’s me doing that. I think about how his curls would slip through my fingers, how the calluses on my fingertips would catch in his hair. How I’d stroke the side of his cheek … bloody hell, I need to stop this.

I drag my eyes away.

“Anything else I can do, Bunce?”

“Cast another healing spell, would you, Basil?”

I cast another healing spell. And another. Just in case.

I can't magic Bunce and Snow over the wall. We’ll just have to wait until morning, when the drawbridge comes down. Or flag the goatherd down at sunrise and have her magic us over. Fiona says she may be unassuming to look at but she’s a powerhouse when she chooses.

I wouldn’t know.

The night is getting cooler and the breeze picks up. I magic my coat into a blanket and Bunce does the same with her jacket. We wrap them around Snow and huddle together for warmth, Snow’s head still pillowed on Bunce’s lap.

He’s inches away, closer than he’s ever been before, except when we’ve been fighting.

It’s too much, having him here like this, so close, so still, so quiet. It’s unnerving. I’m worried that he hasn’t woken up yet. I’m worried he’s lost too much blood. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong though and I try to convince myself it’s just exhaustion and blood loss.

I can’t help it. I reach over and lay my cold hand on his forehead. It feels warm but not too warm. What would I know? I’m not a normal temperature myself.

Snow turns his head into my palm and rubs his forehead against my hand. I snatch it back, not daring to meet Bunce’s eyes.

She places her hand where mine was. “He’s not running a fever, if that’s what you’re worried about, Basil.”

“I’m not worried. Just thought I’d check is all.”

I get another one of Bunce’s penetrating stares. I don’t say anything. I just lean back against the tree we’re huddled under and tilt my head up to look at the stars.

I follow the patterns of the stars but what I see in my head are the patterns on Snow’s skin.

It’s going to be a long night.


End file.
